


a low and insistent bass

by insistentbass



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-08
Updated: 2012-05-08
Packaged: 2017-11-20 13:46:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/586017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insistentbass/pseuds/insistentbass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the night Sherlock comes back, John is drunk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a low and insistent bass

On the night Sherlock comes back, John is drunk.

First off - he doesn’t mean to be. 

It had all started with bloody Stamford and his many chins telling him _‘have a drink, it’ll ease the load’_ and meeting John’s refusal with a glass of really good whisky. And it’s bad, to refuse excellent whisky. It’s like a rule or something. 

On the tenth or eleventh finger of the stuff it doesn't taste so great anymore. In fact, it doesn’t taste of anything and John’s lips are numb and loose and he is chatting up the bar maid as if his life has not fallen (stone by stone by the crack in the pavement and blood mottled curls) around him. To be honest he's feeling pretty damn good and that alone should signal warning bells in his head.

Loud, loud warning bells.

By the time he gets back to his really quite shitty flat, his legs feel like wings and he is far far away from himself. The fridge yields only beer, which will have to do, even though it feels heavy and bitter on his whisky painted tongue. John pushes the fridge door closed with his foot, killing the neon glow, and shimmies off his leather jacket. He toes off his shoes too, precariously balancing on one leg for a moment with the beer sloshing over his hand.

Then he notices Sherlock, and the can plummets to the floor.

The beer froths and spreads and seeps into the grooves of the cheap lino and John finds himself against the kitchen wall, well on his way to joining it. He thinks the room is caving in on him until he realises it’s just himself - _he is caving in on himself_ \- and every ligament in his body shakes and convulses and seethes and rages and it takes all his strength, then, not to vomit.  

“John, are you okay?”

And what a question. What a fucking question. God he wants to hit him, he wants to kill him. Sherlock is dark and shadowy but John can see the bones of him, can see the life of him, there, blatant and unforgiving and completely, utterly real. Slowly his eyes are adjusting to the light and he wishes they wouldn’t, he wishes for dark, he wishes for sleep he wishes for time and space and wishes for Sherlock (wishes for him to leave).

He does not leave. He stands, with his clear eyes catching the light of far too early morning stretching through the window. Sherlock stands as if he is not dead, and never has been.

John can’t speak, of course he can’t. If only things were that simple. If only he wasn’t so drunk, maybe then he could breathe and move and shout and swear and relay words he has practiced over and over again for weeks after that day, in some small desperate child-like hope, and maybe then he could punch him at least or push or do _something_ worthwhile of this agony, maybe tell him _I hate you, you took everything from me_.

He thinks probably not, actually. 

He thinks, probably, that it was always supposed to be like this and he never had a chance, and since when did that even really _matter_ to him? Sherlock moves closer to him with one long stride of leg that John has missed terribly, like he has missed the stretch and ripple of fine cotton across his chest.

He is surprised, a little, that Sherlock kisses him first. Perhaps, even after all this time and all these things, John is still overestimating him.

But he is drunk as hell so what does he know? This could all be a liquor induced nightmare. Except it’s not and John knows it’s not and it’s really just an excuse for something he has been holding down for far too long.

Sherlock is licking the insides of his mouth, the backs of his teeth and the string of muscle that runs underneath his tongue. He’s being mouth fucked, he thinks, and it’s really _really_ hilarious to him until he hears his shirt buttons hit the wall and feels a cold rush of air against his bare chest. Then Sherlock is tasting his goose bumps, too, scraping his freckles and his imperfections with his teeth and leaving beautiful red marks along the sides of his ribs with his hungry fingers. 

All John can do is take it, be taken. His remaining energy is fixed on staying conscious, because he really does not want to miss this.

There are some moments in life where he thinks _what the hell am I doing_ and he will pull his thoughts back into himself and stop - and John’s glad this isn’t one of those, because truly Sherlock is tearing him apart and _moving_ him around and _shifting_ everything he is and _rearranging_ it, replacing it with stuff John can’t understand.

“John, I want to - _I want you_ , please.”

Now _that_ John does hear, and hears it so much that it creeps into the tiniest crevices of his brain and sets them alight, sparks them with electricity until he feels every inch of his skin bounce with static. It aches in his gut - and for a moment he thinks he will actually vomit this time - but then it settles, like a low insistent bass in the pit of his stomach.

“Then take me” He says.

  


  



End file.
